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What gnashing is not a comfort, what gnawing of the worm is not a tickling, what torment is not a marriage bed to this damnation, to be secluded eternally, eternally, eternally from the sight of God?

John Donne

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John Donne
Died: 1631
Died: March 31
Lawyer
Pastor
Poet
Politician
Songwriter
Translator
Writer
London
England
Very Rev. John Donne
Torment
Bed
Tickling
Gnawing
Sight
Secluded
Comfort
Damnation
Marriage
Worm
Eternally
Worms

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A man that is not afraid of a Lion is afraid of a Cat .
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Full nakedness! All my joys are due to thee, as souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be, to taste whole joys.
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How many times go we to comedies, to masques, to places of great and noble resort, nay even to church only to see the company.
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Great sorrows cannot speak.
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ask not for whom the bell tolls it tolls for thee
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No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.
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O Lord, never suffer us to think that we can stand by ourselves, and not need thee.
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O how feeble is man's power, that if good fortune fall, cannot add another hour, nor a lost hour recall!
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Despair is the damp of hell, as joy is the serenity of heaven.
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Affliction is a treasure, and scarce any man hath enough of it.
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I throw myself down in my chamber, and I call in, and invite God, and his Angels thither, and when they are there, I neglect God and his Angels, for the noise of a fly, for the rattling of a coach, for the whining of a door.
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Batter my heart, three-personed God, for you As yet but knock breathe, shine, and seek to mend That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
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When God's hand is bent to strike, it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God but to fall out of the hands of the living God is a horror beyond our expression, beyond our imagination.
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God himself took a day to rest in, and a good man's grave is his Sabbath.
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We love and understand talent we wish it be within us. The truly gifted, those exceptional few, must wait for the world to catch up.
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We can die by it, if not live by love, And if unfit for tombs and hearse Our legend be, it will be fit for verse And if no peace of chronicle we prove, We'll build in sonnet pretty rooms As well a well wrought urne becomes The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs.
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Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
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One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more Death, thou shalt die.
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Verse hath a middle nature: heaven keeps souls, The grave keeps bodies, verse the fame enrols.
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I would not that death should take me asleep. I would not have him merely seize me, and only declare me to be dead, but win me, and overcome me. When I must shipwreck, I would do it in a sea, where mine impotency might have some excuse not in a sullen weedy lake, where I could not have so much as exercise for my swimming.
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